Friday, December 7, 2007

I am grateful for my friends.

At least, this time I bawled with gratitude for the email I got from Monica this morning. I thrive on nurturing, loving compliments from those who really matter to me. Lord knows I always give it to them.

***************************

C,

Thank you so much for being such a great friend.

Last night was the most fun I've had in a while. I didn't realize how much the isolation would bum me out. Having you come over and hang with me means a lot, more than you can know.

If you want to make a walking date for a couple of times a week, count me in. Of course Desi has to come too which may or may not be a pain.

I haven't read your blog but understand your frustration. I know I have said this before but you are not only beautiful inside and out but amazing in a zillion other ways. The people that don't glimpse your attributes beyond physical are missing out and ultimately are the ones who lose out. You are fortunate to connect with those that see all of you and get to weed out the duds without the hassel. You are a great friend and person and don't you forget it!

Hugs,
Mon

Feeling Minnesota

I copied and pasted the following from the blog of my friend Brennen Leigh's older brother, Seth. He used to live in Austin, but now he's back in Minnesota. His blogs are always fascinating--one other great one I read was about him having coffee with a hooker in Costa Rica. Another is about a town in the south of France with a small municipal swimming pool that. He went to the pool to go swimming, but they wouldn't allow him to go in unless he changed. Turns out they don't allow men to wear swimming trunks in that pool, "for safety reasons". It's a rule that all male swimmers MUST wear Speedos. Seriously. And then they presented him with some that were lying in the Lost and Found box. This is the best thing: Seth plays with Brennen Leigh, and was in the south of France for the same festival I will be be playing next summer. So now I must add the "Speedo swimming pool" to my list of sights to see! Heehee.

Anyway, I digress. Here's something he wrote in his blog that makes me crave some REAL weather for a change. It reminds me of many old-timey stories I read voraciously in my girlhood.



******************************************************************
November 26, 2007



I just thought I should let you know about the first visit by Old Man Winter. Today was a tolerable day; temps were in the 30's and I didn't even have to bust out my hat and mittens.

However, as darkness fell, a terrible wind came roaring out of the northwest from across the lake -- taking most of the shingles on the far side of the roof with it. The oldtime thermometer on the garage door read 9 degrees. I suspect I will wake up to the sight of a frozen lake; the view we'll get to look at until about May Day, when the last snowbanks will finally disappear.

Alas, that is a long way off. It is best to resign oneself to the cycle of weight-gain, alcoholism, incessant bitching, and seasonal-affected depression that is just a way of life here in the Land of 10,000 Lakes. The weather man said this little system is just sort of a "tease" compared to the mess of an Alberta Clipper that's going to be unleashed upon the Red River Valley from the Great White North later this week. The guy on TV said the storm should only produce a few feet of snow and it shouldn't cause too much of a disruption.

In our culture of Scandinavian Optimism, this essentially means we're all toast. Think about temperatures that are ten times colder than your grandparents could ever exaggerate .. not being able to leave the house for five to seven days .. people being found buried alive in snowbanks or frozen in their cars in downtown Fargo .. school being cancelled because they can't FIND the school under all that snow .. just another day in the Upper Midwest.

So, the last outing of this fine evening found me fumbling around the yard with a flashlight that barely worked in a blinding snowstorm trying to retrieve all of the shingles that blew off the roof. As if that didn't sufficiently suck -- tomorrow I get to go up on the roof and put them back on in -10 degree windchill. Does a teetering ladder, icy steps, and gale-force winds sound like a good idea to you? If I should happen to survive this affair, I must also locate all of our deck furniture, eaves troughs, several trashcans and a large outdoor grill that has gone missing in the first blizzard of the season. Cheers.

Thursday, December 6, 2007

Cold Hard Facts of Life

I'm going to get plenty of diverse opinions about this, but I hope it doesn't truly offend anyone.

********************************************************

You know what I think is really sad? That big women in our society are likely be alone for a longer time. I hate to say this, but it occurs to me that if I had a daughter (while I was raising her with plenty of exercise and healthy food), I would know that her chances of finding a long-term relationship might be significantly lessened if she were a big girl. I mean, I would NEVER want to put that pressure on a daughter, but it's true if you really think about it.

The majority of men in today's society absolutely do not consider women with fat rolls first, when thinking of a potential mate. They see a woman being 'fat' as an overall detractor, roughly equivalent to a potential mate not having a steady job, or being divorced or having kids, or something. Meaning it's a factor that is not insurmountable, but it's not an "ideal situation."

I mean, I understand that men are visual creatures by nature, who would prefer blossoming youthfulness-- smooth lines, soft skin, no body hair. Women are (subconsciously) angels to worship, and waifs to protect. I also know that this is something that many forward-thinking, sensitive men may not want to admit to themselves, let alone a woman.

Picture a smart, happy, healthy, loving, creative, active woman.

If this woman were skinny, it is a fact that she would find herself with significantly more romantic opportunities than a woman who is forty pounds overweight...even if otherwise, they were the exact same person. And yes, it is completely feasible that these two women may exercise the same amount, eat the same amount, and so on, and still one would be larger than the other one. But we all know it is a certainty that the smaller woman will meet more interested parties. With these odds in her favor, her chances of love, marriage, and children are greater than those of a larger woman.*

And so the American woman with the "unlucky" genes has a harder time in our society's "survival of the fittest" race. And it's a self-fulfilling prophecy as well, because the more times the bigger woman is passed over as a potential mate, the more bitter and resentful she becomes. Her self-esteem worsens and she becomes one tough nut indeed, allowing no interested parties into her world, or her heart, at all.

I think it's extremely unfortunate that our modern society has virtually gone against nature and trained all of us, men and women alike, to believe that waiflike thinness is more desirable for procreation.

Hmmm...possibly even more unfortunate is the fact that I'm already inwardly criticizing myself, because this entire blog seems "spoken like a fat woman angry at the world."


*Of course, what she does with these opportunities is another matter.

Tuesday, December 4, 2007

In the immortal words of Rusty Warren--"Getcher Knockers Up!"

I've been "ensconsing." That is, myself into my cozy little me-nest. I have a stack of good books to read, tasty and healthy food in the refrigerator, a (mostly) clean and organized living space. I have kicked up my exercise and my sleep and my water intake, and I am content.

Oh, I always have worries--about my upcoming trip, my record, keeping up my car, fearful dreams about more car accidents as this road trip looms, whether I'll be able to take a class this spring, whether I'll ever stop living under a shadow of fear (that all physical and mental surroundings that I've built for myself will be destroyed) ...and whether or not I can live with the fact that some I love dearly can feel themself doomed to unhappiness and live their lives accordingly, and I'll never really make that much of a difference whether or not I am in it.

I need joy. I do not want clouds cast on the moments that I have learned to enjoy. I MUST stamp those dark little feelings out rather than dwell on them, else I shall doom myself to a dark, sad little cycle within my own head, forever and ever and unable to escape. I choose instead to turn to the things which give me constant joy. A new kiss, lungs tight from running, bath steam rising hot above my reddened skin beneath the water. Jammies and hot tea and cute cats and the thrill of accomplishment when I finish a song or a piece of writing.

Although the company I invited to share my dinner last night never showed up (as is de rigeur for him), I didn't mind a bit because I already had something joyful, small as it was. I had researched some of my healthy-food cookbooks over the weekend and decided to try something new. I took bulgur wheat, ground beef, green beans, onions, garlic, spices and roasted tomatoes, topped it with parsley and romano cheese and baked it into a delicious Mediterranean peasant dish. It was perfect to eat while I watched rainforest-dwelling villages get crushed beneath the sumptuous, bloodthirsy Mayan empire...and wished I had the internet, so I could educate myself to my heart's content on pre-Columbian Mayan civilization. But even as I wished it, I didn't want to waste my time staring at another screen after the movie was over. Instead, I took to my bed with my new book and a freshly arrived fashion magazine with pretty pictures.

Inspiration, relaxation, and non-procrastination. For me, they are cornerstones of a healthy and happy existence.

Monday, November 26, 2007

Lest I forget to remind myself....

I am NOT an idiot.
I am NOT an idiot.
I am NOT an idiot.
I am NOT an idiot.
I am NOT an idiot.
I am NOT an idiot.
I am NOT an idiot.
I am NOT an idiot.
I am NOT an idiot.
I am NOT an idiot.

I am not a *total* idiot.

I don't trust anyone, though. I foresee a listless personal future because others will never be able to give me what I need. I give myself what I need, but that only goes so far. I have ideas of how to fix the fulfillment issue, but ultimately I don't have the nerve.

I do know, however, that I'm fooling myself if I ever think any of this is going to work out for the better. Nothing like trying to explain it to your friends with that hollow, hopeful voice.

I'm writing this somewhat pathetic, whiny post in the hopes that someday I will be able to see solid written evidence that for once, I was wrong. I want that moment so bad that I can taste it. I do not want to instead come back and read things like this and nod to myself and say "Well, Caroline. Looks like you were right. And guess what? You wasted your life."


One thing I would like to change about myself. I am too quick to become hopeful.

Monday, November 12, 2007

Diddy dum

Movin' right along...overall, the past 7 days haven't been too bad!


Re-established contact with extended family members, spoke with other extended family members, got some more info on the French festival, getting ready to record more for my album this Wednesday, lost a drummer, gained a drummer, been ridiculously, pathetically broke (selling CDs and books for my lunch and dinner money). Watched some movies, listened to some records, had a "fake date" with Chris Sprague, saw Deke Dickerson play, ate at Polvo's, drank margaritas, went bar-hopping, ate sausages, got some walks in before work, got some sleep at night, got some production stuff arranged for the record.

I need to get lots of sleep THIS week, too....

Tuesday, November 6, 2007

Teehee

So I took a funny little questionnaire today. Not that any of this is to be taken seriously, but it was a little bit interesting.

Psychoanalyze Yourself:

Don't read ahead, just answer the following questions with the first thought that comes to mind. Then read which each answer means at the end. No cheating!

1. You are walking in the woods. You are not alone. Who is with you?

Steve—he is exploring with me.

2. You are walking in the woods. You see an animal. What kind of animal?

A really amazing-looking, rare bird. Or else a snuffling boar.

3. What interaction takes place between you and the animal?

Neither animal notices us standing there.

4. You walk deeper in the woods. You enter a clearing, and before you is your dream house, how big is it?

Smallish, by most standards—but comfortable, and looks amazing because it’s a cottage of rustic, old-fashioned dreams, nestled remotely in the big woods. I imagine it with all manner of old-fashioned creature comforts and a kitchen for real living...and the internet, hehe.

5. Is your dream house surrounded by a fence?

No. No need for a real fence, but maybe there is a natural barrier or trees or bushes.

6. You enter the house. You walk into the dining room and see the dining table; what is on it?

Fresh bread (that I baked!) , a wrapped hunk of cheese (that I strained!), a crock of butter (that I made!), and a bowl of fruit (that I picked!). Oh, and a kitchen towel.

7. You exit the house and a cup is on the ground, what kind is it?

An old tin cup that either Steve or I found somewhere along our travels. Century+ old.

8. What do you do with the cup?

If it’s on the ground outside, then I would imagine it’s there for a reason. We probably placed it there (perhaps symbolic), and so we will leave it there.

9. You walk to the edge of the property where you find yourself standing at a body of water; what is it?

A large lake with wild shores on all sides, a primitive deck by where we are, and on the other side, waterfalls, stone cliffs on the side of a large hill, and a nearby exit to a rapid-filled creek.

10. How will you cross the water?

From our primitive boat from our primitive deck. And barrels, for fun.

After you copy and paste into a new bulletin, and answer ALL the questions above you can look down here.







The ANSWERS

1. The person who you are walking in the woods with is the most important to you.

Pfft, I could have told you that.

2. The size of the animal is representative of your perception of the size of your problems in your life.

So then, fair to middlin'. Hmmm.

3. The severity of the interaction you have with the animal is representative of how you deal with your problems.

Hah! I don't deal with them, apparently. But I don't run away from them either.

4. The size of your dream home is representative of the size of your ambition to solve your problems.

Yep, that's about right.

5. A lack of a fence is indicative of an open personality. People are welcome at all times. The presence of a fence indicates a closed personality. You'd prefer people not drop by unannounced.

I don't think my answer is quite so black-and-white.

6. If your answer did NOT include food, flowers, or people, then you are generally unhappy.

I'm supposed to be fretting about the kitchen towel, then. Hehe.

7. The durability of the material with the cup is made of is representative of the perceived durability of your relationship.

Ancient, tarnished, but sturdy and thought-provoking?

8. What you did with the cup is representative of your attitude.

It is what it is, after all.

9. The size of the body of water is representative of the size of your sexual desire.

Big, with lots of opportunity for variety...sounds like me!

10. The way you cross the water is representative to how easy or hard you expect your life to be.

Not an easy ride, but tried and true. Hmm.

Monday, November 5, 2007

Hurry up and wait

That seems like what I do....ALL THE TIME. Except, of course, when I wait, and wait, and wait...and then I hurry up because I have to, at deadline times.

I awoke today with a genuine question, almost as if I were outside of me, questioning me.

Why do I insist on stressing myself out and swimming in circles with a series of unrewarding projects, unwanted career path changes, and unfulfilling relationships that hold no chance for real future happiness?

I'm not down on myself, don't get me wrong. I am lucky, because I really am partially where I would like to be, in life. I know, ultimately, what I want and who I should let into my life. I just seem to be taking an awful lot of backsteps and missteps. If I were to examine that carefully, I would say that I have a very strong fear of real success. I have achieved a lot of successes, but I know that I haven't really tried that hard to get there.

The honest truth is that I can easily envision the whats, the wheres, and the whos of fulfilling my life's dreams, but I am afraid to achieve them. Perhaps I'm afraid of what would happen once I got to that point. Would I be disappointed? Disillusioned? I'll probably have already changed direction again by the time that hits. And if I have, would this mean the previous 10+ etc, years would have been a waste?

My father repeatedly told me from a very young age (like, 8 or 9) that I have a "fear of success." I wonder if I subconsciously took that observation to heart more than I should, and consequently lived out my life to reflect that trait. When I give this some thought, I have to say, I think I just accepted it (because my father knows everything!) and fed into it, instead of battling and conquering it.

He couldn't have known it would harm me, for he believed in honesty and I know in my deepest gut that he loved me more than life itself. But it makes me think...if my father had told me (albeit untruthfully) that I had NO fear of success, and that I can and WOULD be able to do anything I ever dreamed of in life, that it was expected of me, and actually put some more pressure on me, maybe I would have subconsciously adopted a different, more confident approach to life.

I remember asking him when I was a very small girl (4 or 5) , in a voice full of awe, hope, and reverence, if he thought *I* would be able to go to college when I grew up, and his answer was that he "hoped so." Now I'm an adult, and I can see what he meant. He meant that he hoped so "if money and opportunity and less beaurocratic red tape allowed him to send me there"...and I heard he hoped so "if I was smart enough." A little something lost in translation, and here I still remember the conversation thirty years later.

Sometimes seeing life in shades of gray, when vocalized (especially in relation to others), can harm those who are close to you. We need a little bit of "black or white" in order to discover our strengths.

Wednesday, October 31, 2007

France in my pants

I just found out from Ricky Broussard that the promoters selected me to perform at the French festival next July. Wonder of wonders! I guess my spiffing up of my demo (and bio and the like) provided them with a little something to go on. Hooray for Gascony!

Hmmm. I wonder what the South of France will be like when I'm experiencing with Ricky...and Roger...and Bear...and CHADD THOMAS...okay, I'm getting a little bit spooked out now.

Hopefully since Miss Leslie is going, she'll be nice to me and I will have some fun with another gal around. I'll probably have to try to be really fun all the time, because I have long observed that I have a strong penchant for putting the "I" in team. Heh.

Not that that's a bad thing....

Ugh...I am extremely worn out this morning. I was tired last night even before I went to rehearsal, plus I bought a couple of inexpensive examples of literary deliciousness last night, which only makes me want to pull a blankie over my lap and a cat to my side and read, read, read.

The one I'm starting with is of a lighter ilk than the others. A young American girl goes to England to research the Scarlet Pimpernel, the Purple Gentian, and the Pink Carnation. She discovers all sorts of spy-laden intrigue during the French Revolution and uncovers the identity of the Pink Carnation, which had previously been unknown.

It's a little too amateurishly written, especially when it gets a tad too romance-y, but I am seriously loving the characters.


I'm tired today. Want to get my record player back from Laura and go home and listen to some stuff. And read. And nap. And make a tasty dinner and hand out candy to youngsters.

Must be the witching day casting its spell upon my person.....

Wednesday, October 24, 2007

Million miles an hour

I've been working through a lot of things in my head lately. Many of them have to do with financial troubles, as I feel like I'm sinking and I'm not sure how to get ahead. It may be that I have to bite the bullet and get another part-time job, but then I've got to do the band thing and the record thing and more. The thought of trying to do it all nearly cleaves my forehead in two.

Been thinking a lot also, lately, about what I want and don't want romantically. I have finally, for the first time in my life, gotten a somewhat clear idea of how I would like to be treated; I also have an idea of the sort of personality of the person who I would want, and how I would like to go through life if I were with this someone. For years I have known women who have very specific ideas about their ideal mate, and I scoffed because it seemed to me that all they were doing was turning away opportunities. Granted, many of them had "ideals" that would make me sick, but that's them, not me.

I am finally realizing that it is very important for me to stay true to what I want, now that I know what that is. It's a shame no one I currently know fits the bill. But I am happy in general, and I feel hope. I was out last Friday at Lambert's and was intrigued by many people I had never seen before; compelled by curiosity and attaction, and impressed by the collective IQ. I don't doubt for a minute that I will meet these people in the future. In the meantime, I need to make sure the projects that keep me the most happy don't fall prey to my rather frequent fits of melancholy and lethargia.

And by the way..about these new projects that keep me happy... my new band ROCKS! Dante was exactly what we needed to get things tied in place. He and I have been doing some co-writing as of late, and it's great to put my words to his inventive and evocative melodies. And he keeps on top of me for the guitar too, telling me when I'm being lazy. I love that. And we have practice tonight and I have work to do. It helps that when we were all at Nick's for his party on Satruday night, that Darren was gushing about my song. I'm glad he liked it, because this is so new to me that any bit of compliment and non-criticism is welcome. As far as this project goes, I do not want criticism so early on, even in the name of art.

DB Harris is in Nashville working on the harmonies for "It's Later Now"-- he is in touch with Mario to make sure the tracks are in place and they're loading the files to .ftp for ease and efficiency. It looks like my idea to make "It's Later now" a male-female duet might be possible, even after the fact ! This Thursday afternoon I'm meeting with Brennen Leigh to have girlie time and go over the songs on my album to see where she would fit in (and she's definitely doing mandolin on 'Daddy's Girl").

Mario is working withthe horn players and other soloists, as I have given him carte blanche to make "Threshold of Heartache" sound exactly like what he is envisioning. If it sounds totally Spanish, that's just fine with me.

And I am recording with Jim Stringer on November 14th. Besides the engineering, I think he's going to do some straight steel on a couple of the songs; maybe male harmonies too. We'll see how involved he wants to be. I am working on finding a good pedal steel player to record here in Austin. Mario said he'd make sure Carlos paid for that, and all I have to do is nail down a price and let Mario know.


Things are coming together, that's for sure! After mid-November, my main focus is to work on the album design, the liner notes, and get some good photographs taken. I also need to talk to my stylist girlfriends to see if one of them could make my hair look like Loretta Lynn ca. 1970, for the photo session. I'm going to need an awful lot of fake hair for that!

Thursday, October 4, 2007

Busy, schmizzy.

Funny how I need to spell "schmizzy" as such, instead of "schmusy". Ahh, the idiosyncrasies of the English language.

Band practice last night was AMAZING! The addition of Misti totally pulled the whole thing together, and Charlie's drumming sounded great too. The songs we played sounded like REAL songs, and we even worked up an original tune...if only I could come up with non country-oriented lyrics at the drop of a hat.

Still no word from Dante. Hopefully he's gotten here okay and hasn't run into too many difficulties on the drive from California.

I pick up my CD at Kinko's later, along with a couple of prints of my promo photographs, and thus I'll be able to pack them up with my spiffed-up bio and get it to Rick B. sometime tomorrow. Wahoo!

Rachel got offered a job with American Eagle. Good for her! I hope she weathers the changes and transitions well while moving into this new chapter of her life. It's amazing to feel real personal power, and I don't think she's ever felt it keenly, like this will surely do for her.

I think we underestimate the feeling of personal power. I've been trying to make sure that I keep remembering how it feels by constantly trying new activities, however insignificant they may appear to be. I may feel like the "stupid kid" as I learn these new skills and meet all these new people, but eventually I'll master whatever I need to and be that much better for it.

The garage band is part of my trying new things, for sure. Tamborine, maracas, shakers, and a front-and-center stage attitude is something I'm not quite comfortable with, but it's sort of a 'duck to water' thing when you've got great people you're working with. And we've been practicing in a real garage, which is a blast (albeit warm at this time of year).

Also, my new cheap gym and the classes that go with it are challenging as well. I've been working my ASS off trying to feel physically better and stronger. Slowly things are improving to that end.

Designing and making a CD cover on my own and getting my demo CD professionally printed (even if it was only one CD) is helping me feel like I LOOK more musically impressive to people who want to see that, like the promoters of that French country music festival. I've always approached my music with such an amateurish attitude that it's kind of nice to try on a coat of a different (bright, sumptuous) color for a change.

This week, if I meet up with Dante, I'll be showing him around town and getting him acclimated...although he's resourceful and pragmatic from what I could tell. Nevertheless it helps to have a go-to person when you're in a new city.

My next new activity is going to be volunteering at somewhere for a day. I don't want a huge commitment to that sort of thing due to time constraints, but I want to do something, somewhere...and soon.

Tuesday, September 25, 2007

My Monday was...something!

I worked. I went to check out a gym last night and ended up joining. It's a women-only gym, and has a pool to boot. Ten dollars cheaper per month than Gold's was. I'm excited...I even saw little old ladies in the pool taking a "Senior Aquatics" class, complete with floaty noodles. I was hoping to find a bunch of old 1950s "calisthenics" equipment (such as the shaky hip-belt thingie, whatever that's called), but apparently I'm going to have to settle for a flowery swim cap and 'free swim. '

After I signed my life away, I went home. Yummy food. Greens and such. Followed by a quite unexpected phone call from Justin, which resulted in a margarita at Matt's el Rancho with some folks, and a long catch-up session. Amused reminiscing about the time when my dress broke whilst go-go dancing at an Ugly Beats show and he had to help me improvise a black duct-tape mini-skirt in the back room. I forgot about how his good humor, sense of adventure and devil-may-care attitude makes those odd situations into great stories...and great, great fun.

I am even sleepier today than I was yesterday. I think combined, I have about eight hours' sleep from both nights.

*yawn*

Monday, September 24, 2007

My weekend was...something!

My weekend was exhausting, but overall it was good for me...cathartic.

Friday evening after work I went for a walk, did a DVD workout and then later I went over to Donny's house to meet him. We talked and messed around for a while with his Farfisa and guitars. He and his girlfriend both seem like VERY sweet people. I hope he comes to work with me/us, musically. He's definitely got a feel for the psyche, which is something I wouldn't mind delving into a *little* bit. As long as it doesn't go too near that lame "indie-psyche" that seems so common among devotees of Brian Jonestown Massacre, etc.

After I left, I went home and baked cookies and finished up the wine I'd bought last weekend. I watched "Sex and the City" late into the evening (in lieu of girlfriends' company) and cried and was really, really angry for the rest of the night. It felt really good to be angry. I am still angry. Hooray for angry!

Saturday I called Mario and we discussed timelines and other necessary details for my record. Oh, how wonderful! I realized how much better I work when I have specific deadlines, so we set some. We had a great talk, and I feel much better and more clear about finishing the record now.


I dropped by Monica's in the early afternoon to take her and Bobby some of the cookies I'd baked (Baby Dumpling, her kitty for 17 years had been put to sleep the day before). She gave me some money in exchange for me schlepping over to Michael's and picking up supplies so I could make her a whole new slew of crafty '40s flowers for her hair. I forgot how fun that crafty little habit of mine can be.

I got home and roasted a chicken, made a sweet potato and some seasoned cabbage...relaxed and made flowers until it was time to get gussied up to go see Deke.

Wait, I can't believe it...I actually went to see Deke play???

It was rather fun, to tell the truth. I got in my old "get-up", just because...bamboo-style vintage halter dress, big hair flowers, curled hair, high heels, the works. I hadn't even gotten that gussied in Spain. Eh. Could be that I'd unearthed enough of my old vintage stuff to finally get excited about wearing it again, I don't know. I've got some really beautiful things that shouldn't just be hanging in a closet or folded into a bin.

I went to the show and met several new people and saw plenty of old friends; there were even some Europeans about. I didn't even know those folks came here anymore, these days! Heh.

I saw Misti W. while I was at the Continental, and was ecstatic to hear that she's looking for a new musical project. Shandon Sahm doesn't play much, she's not in Mr. Lewis and the Funeral Five anymore, and apparently The Dirty Hearts are taking a break. Wahoo!

She loves my singing and is dying to be in a band with me, as it turns out! So there you have it. if I have anything to say about it, Misti is going to be the final piece of our little 60s band. Hope fills my soul.

I went home at bar closing, mentally and physically drained. It was the kind of drained where I sat on my couch for another hour and half, half-watching TV, unwinding but not sleeping.

Sunday came...I awoke depressed. Stayed in bed. Cried. Was angry. Felt like crap about my fat, lazy, unlovable self. Luckily, I know me fairly well and knew that once I got up, it was going to be a galvanizing day. I knew it but at the same time, wasn't really looking forward to it.

Finally at 1:30pm I dragged myself out of bed and out to get some creamer for my coffee. I made a BIG pot of the stuff, took some allergy medicine, and within an hour, I was in my room going through all of my stuff. And I do mean all. I spent the next eight hours purging, re-arranging, cleaning, and finding storage places for all that had been in dusty bins and boxes and bags. Little things, big things; my entire purse collection, all the stuff that doesn't fit me anymore (but will again), etc., etc.

I got rid of the old computer and the desk and many, many other items. Goodwill got a huge amount of goodies from me yesterday, that's for sure. I'm lucky to have the Goodwill so close to my house, with a drive-through drop-off spot, no less. They haven't seen the last of me!

The beautiful thing was, in the end I found a place for everything, with room to spare. And now my room is re-arranged and my bed is in a better spot and I can finally relax.

Friday, September 21, 2007

Dime a dozen

I've been taking an objective look into my romantic history for the past ten years:

1) Alcoholics
2) Men who live in other countries
3) Depressives
4) Emotionally unavailable and jerky
5) Stoners
6) Womanizers
7) Emotionally unavailable, but not jerky
8) Overly needy


I really know how to pick 'em, it seems. At least there's only one person out of this entire 'collection' who I ever fooled myself enough to think that maybe he was the right man for me. I never believed in and usually scoffed at women (ok, GIRLS) who said "You know? I think he's The One." Hahaha! And though I'll still scoff at that overall, I can now understand how an otherwise rational person might come to wonder that from time to time when they meet someone really special.

I can't wait until I'm up and running free and happy again. I mean, REALLY up and running. Not running away.

Thursday, September 20, 2007

Oh, lordie. Here it all comes.

Having gone over many things in my head and having come to some sad, truthful conclusions, thus begins the cyclic emotions that slowly, surely (I fucking hope) will evolve into true acceptance and improvement of character.

Stiff with the top lip, up with the chin, long in the spine, back with the shoulders, in with the tummy. I dream that I may truly learn to stay the hell away from situations that I know will bring me down.

Today, though? I just feel really, REALLY cheated.

Wednesday, September 19, 2007

Happening!

Last night I met Laurie for a little hangout session and it was SO FUN! She has totally re-inspired me about my music. The fact that she has a fairly big voice at KUT doesn't hurt, that's for sure. I let her hear the rough tracks on my record and with her response, I only want to push forward and make this baby happen. She's such a firecracker and positive influence. Almost like a drug.

I also decided that I'm going to beef up my music blog since I post on there so rarely, but always have something worth blogging about when it comes to making or talking about music. And it'll get my mind off my mind, if that makes any sense.

OVER-ANALYZATION OUT! MUSIC IN!!!

Tuesday, September 18, 2007

If I went to one last night, do I have to take one this morning?

Went to Monica and Bobby's shower last night at the upstairs of the Continental Club. It was a blast! I got to see people I hadn't seen in years. I can't remember the last time people like Tanya Babitch, Jennifer Barker-Benfield, Tom & Laura, Lisa Dean, Veronica, Justine, Julie Peterson, etc. were all in the same room together. How fun! It looks like maybe I need to have a party sometime and get some people over.

However...although I thought it was funny at the time, I probably shouldn't have written "Suck Me" on the big stuffed pacifier that everyone was passing around and signing with a Sharpie. Heh.

Afterward I went home and worked my way through some wine, sat on the couch, and thought about stuff.

And I'm not sad.

Monday, September 17, 2007

It's a little late in the game

It's a little late in life for me me to truly, TRULY understand this, but finally I get it. For the first time in my life, a very personal way, I can wrap my head around the painful complexities of the term "irreconcilable differences."

Wednesday, September 12, 2007

My own company

I enjoy my own company most of all.

The past week or so I have been feeling very easily harangued, and my personal relationships have felt inexplicably (okay, explicably) complicated. Thus, I have been retreating into my own mind until this mood passes. Very soon here, I will either work through it and express what I need to express, or else it'll just fade out when a fun-loving, expansive mood finally hits me again.

Last night I walked on Town Lake (ran into Jen Barker-Benfield and so walked with her and her friend for a couple of miles). Afterward, I grabbed a salad and went to Target to get contact solution and allergy medication.

I went home, ate my salad and lay on the couch and read, undisturbed, for five solid hours.

I love that a lot more than I realize. Sweet, sweet solitude.

Monday, September 10, 2007

And just when I think I should suppress all my emotions

Someone comes along and tells me it's okay to have them. The hurt, the anger, the sadness...it's okay to have them.

This came to my Myspace inbox from Barbara at Get Hip:

Hi Caroline,

So I used the demo CD you gave us in Austin last time to listen to while I was stripping icky wallpaper from my kitchen wall... yeah doesn't sound glamorous but that is the time when I will completely concentrate in the music while doing something productive, ha!

So I listen to it like 10 times on a row and kept liking it more and more every time. I know some (or most) of it is on the demo stage and I can't wait to hear it finished. You need to keep throwing guts at your singing and lyric writing... you have that raw and true talent that I personally envy because my weak voice has always held me back from trying to attempt singing. I'm always told that I'm fearless and strong but really, compare to you or Michael K or other people that throw everything out there for others to criticize, well I think I am a coward.


I wanted to tell you that my FAVE song on your CD is IT'S LATER NOW. What an awesome song... it could've been on like a Gram Parsons album or something like that. Great.


Keep up the good work girl, and most of all BE HAPPY.

Love,

Barbara

Hello, 911? I do believe that I've shot myself in the foot.

I’m confused and occasionally saddened by my choices of how I handle my relationships with people. I want to be happy and so should be strong enough to make the choices to attain this happiness.

Luckily, the whole world's not where I am. Some other people seem to be taking steps towards hope and happiness.

I saw Marshall leaving Reid’s apartment last night. I had just returned my movies to Vulcan and was getting out of my car when I saw him come down the stairs, with a date. They seemed absorbed in each other; flirty and giddy. I sat there watching quietly from my dark car about thirty feet away, trying not to bring attention to myself. I did not want to distract them and make them feel like they were being observed. I was smiling and my heart was glad for Marshall. I am very, very happy for him and I hope it works out.

Friday, September 7, 2007

Positively Bubbly

It’s Friday and I’m looking forward to this weekend! I have three dollar bills, about $5.00 in quarters and $3.55 in the bank so I guess that’s what I will have to use to survive unless I sell some more stuff. Be that as it may, I’m going to pet the kitties, watch Rock Hudson & Doris Day, stretch, sleep in, walk 10-15K before Monday. I’m going to work on my record and hang out with Steve (hooray! It’s been so fun lately) and see “This Is England” and work on stuff for the new band. My place is already clean, so all I really have to do is get rid of some of the vintage stuff and rearrange my room. I may or may not get to that, heehee.

I’ve been sinking into a happy little zone lately, but it’s somewhat dangerous. My new way of enjoying my space is to eat a filling supper followed by a movie and appropriate movie snacks (popcorn, etc). I've hit that total "I can do whatever the hell I want", low-stress comfort zone, which frankly given my indulgent personality, is not so good for me. I’ve been trying to exercise as much as my knee will allow, but what I really need is to get over this hump and shrink my stomach enough to be satisfied with less. It's going to take more exercise to get there than I'm currently doing.

I know these cravings will be easier to outmaneuver after next week, when my money situation eases up and I’m able to buy lots of groceries that are more expensive but are much healthier and satisfy me just as much. For instance, those organic dried soups…veggie chili and all that, used to be a mainstay for me. I like them but they're almost three bucks a pop! And a good cut of fish or a small pile of shrimp; Organic boxes of tomato and squash soup, salad fixings and goat cheese and feta and lots of good fresh fruit.

A Totino’s pizza is 99 cents. A Jr. Bacon Cheeseburger from Jack in the Box is 99 cents. All that junk that may be tasty ONCE IN A WHILE is about all I have been able to afford for the past couple of weeks, except for my “gone far too soon” grocery splurge after selling some stuff for cash. It's expensive to love good, healthy food as much as I do. I wish I cared about food so little that I would be physically satisfied with a can of tuna, iceberg lettuce and cottage cheese, but well....

I just keep telling myself that it’ll be over soon! I plan to use the drive-thru at Baby Greens a lot more, and vegetarian/pescetarian again is also the plan. I’ll get there eventually. I really will.

I’m all abuzz with ideas and projects and feeling good other than that. Life is pretty much as it should be except of course I am impatient to get everything I want and I’d like to have the money to do it.

In other self-indulgent news: aside from food and fun--I'm getting a haircut, the new Harry Potter book, and a bottle of decent perfume as soon as fiscally possible! So there.

Tuesday, September 4, 2007

I’ll make it up if I have to!

So apparently, if I don’t have anything to feel directly guilty about and things are going swimmingly for me, my subconscious will actually make stuff up for me to feel guilty about. Last night’s dream woke me at 3:41am and it took me hours to fall asleep again, trying to figure out how to handle a sticky situation that I'd just created in my dream. That half-awake worry tumbled into fully awake worries about the other issues I still feel—unresolved stuff with Brian, for instance. I really abhor that my mind does that to me.

I am trying to figure out what to do when that occurs. It’s very difficult to just roll over and fall back asleep...after all, it’s me we’re talking about here. Hehe.


About my current state of affairs, I’m in a seemingly perpetual state of “want.” I want to lose weight; I want meaningful, fulfilling romantic love; I want to create amazing music and write good books and see the world. It seems as if none of that stuff is happening fast enough to keep up with my desires. Exactly how mature am I, that I still doggedly maintain this "need" for instant gratification?


Hmmmm......

Tuesday, August 28, 2007

Deliciousness for the mind and soul

I should find some more lovely blogs to read. The following excerpt is from the journal of Joey Comeau.

Who is Joey Comeau, you ask? I have no idea, really. But interesting, artistic, expressive people are always nice to know about.

He and his partner Emily are here:
http://www.asofterworld.com/about.php


And this is from his personal journal. Fantastic. Literally.

I found an old suitcase in my grandmother's basement, two weeks ago. It was grey and dusty, and it had my grandfather's initials. My initials. I pulled it out into the center of the room and set it down. I pulled hard at the old zipper, which went all the way around, and when I flipped open the top there was a ladder leading down into the floor. Something near the bottom was flickering. Some light.My grandfather was sitting alone in a room down there, watching wrestling on the television. The iron lung sat unused in the corner of the room. During the commercial, he looked up and smiled at me. He held his glass up, and I took it and filled it with wine. He tussled my hair and then turned back to the television. There were tunnels leading off into other rooms.My great aunt, sewing me costumes. Her budgie, under the floor, in a shoe box, singing along to the machine. You can get lost down there. It took a long time for me to find my way back to the ladder. And a few rungs back toward the light, I felt my grandfather's hand on my ankle. He was out of his chair, looking up. He held out his wine glass for me. Upstairs, two weeks had gone by. Memories are like everything else. They're a trap.

Here he writes something touching with a slightly edgier literary voice:

Today is a beautiful day again.

http://www.asofterworld.com/index.php?id=248

Today I hope that my collection agents take a break from tirelessly trying to track me down, and I hope someone touches them on the elbow and says, "God you have lovely eyes." I hope they come home tonight and they don't even get in the door before someone is ripping their clothes off and fucking them crazy. I hope they fall asleep exhausted and empty and full of senseless optimism for the future. I hope this for you, too. I hope that you are out shopping and, without knowing why, you have to run to the bathroom and touch yourself. I hope that you finish with your brow sweaty and short of breath and I hope you are embarrassed but strangely proud of yourself.

An entry like this really makes me think.

A few years ago, I went and bought an old Smith-Corona electric typewriter at a South Austin thrift store. It was two shades of aqua and had that sharp inky smell and heavy electric hum. When I typed for too long the tips of my fingers went numb, and the lower-case "i" never did work.

At the time, I wrote a lot. Although the majority of it was musical writing, I also spent a goodly amount of my time in my apartment getting slightly sauced and honing my own brand of "shocking" literary voice. I wrote the kind of stuff I do not seek out but still occasionally pick up to read with a wincing grimace; white-knuckled while holding the book. To tell the truth, I've never liked it that much...but still, I love it in a hateful little way.

I have never shown anyone these writings, as they are intensely confessional and cannibalistic and altogether too (in)human for me to attempt to publish. The writing also deals with a lot of childhood memories; the precocious child's discovery of body and sex and stink and anger and cruelty and of course, guilt, guilt, guilt. However, I strongly feel that it is an important voice for me to work with, as it uncovers the secret thoughts of which I am ashamed. I must say, I am "embarrassed but strangely proud" of myself for putting to paper.

The writings have made it to the present day. I am sad to say that the old Smith-Corona did not.

Thursday, August 23, 2007

Still stressing out

Things have eased for me a lot lately due to my quiet new surroundings, but I'm getting all tensed up yet again. Sigh. I HATE this.

I've been shifting everything around financially for the past few months due to the overwhelming amount of expensive things I need just to live the way I am trying to. That is to say, I need gasoline for my fuel-efficient car, inexpensive groceries for me, edible food for my cats, and a roof over my head. That's how I am "trying" to live.

But now, as the months have gone by, I no longer have any breathing room, and nothing else to shift and nowhere to shift it. It's now or never that I literally won't have a dime. There is no more room on any credit cards--no more room on bank accounts--no more room on anything. My next paycheck will officially be $40.00 less than I owe on my car and rent.

I keep trying to tell myself that this will be over SO soon. This time next month, I won't be worrying nearly as much as I am right now. By the time October 1st comes around, all my pet deposits will be paid, my electric bill, and I'll be able to maybe get a tune-up on my car and possibly a highly necessary root canal. Oh, and pay more than $20.00 a month towards my 2 credit cards. Sounds like a ball, doesn't it?

I need some frivolous fun badly. Not just temporary. I need some get-away-from-it-all, long-lasting, no-worries fun, and I need it right away.

How to do this?

Sunday, August 19, 2007

Cloudy Sunday

Today I feel the weight of who I am not. Today, I feel the weight of what I will never accomplish. Today, I know that if I allow things to remain as they are, I will never be that special. Today, I hurt a lot.

I long for something wonderful; something magical.

Friday, August 17, 2007

The Power of People

What I know in life is that we (those who think perceptively, that is) are all searching for something. Whether we know it or not, that “something” is actually most often found in some ONE.

I forget that sometimes. I forget how the me that is me could not have become the best me without knowing and allowing myself to be influenced by others. I have committed many offenses to be sure…but overall I find I am much improved just by sheer interaction with other human beings. It’s the most inspirational thing in the universe.

Every so often, I have to make myself think about this. I constantly chastise myself for not staying in; for not “working” on my craft. I want to improve my skills, for sure…but the general point of creativity at all is to put it out there and see who else responds to it. Those who respond in a kindred manner may well get a lifelong membership to knowing me. That membership may require the occasional renewal dues, but we all have to pay it; and me to them for certain.

Sometimes I just want to stay on my couch.

Sometimes I don’t want to meet strangers and go places where I might feel a little bit uncomfortable. Sometimes I see someone walking my way and I…well, I duck out of sight because I’m in some weird mood that may or may not have to do with them. As I get older, this happens more often. It’s a desire to maintain a mental status quo, I think; it is a fervent desire to keep complete acceptance of the person that I am. I accept my own idiosyncrasies, so when I am with myself, being my freaky little self, I am the most comfortable.

The thing is (and this sounds almost trite, but)…why should I cheat myself of the opportunity to meet inspiring people of the world, and why should I cheat them of the opportunity to be inspired by me? To do so would gradually signify an end to my personal development.

It seems to me that all that we are doing in life is seeking to be loved; if not on an emotional level, then certainly on a creative one. When I explore things that amaze me (an undiscovered cave, a great band, a hidden graveyard, a book; a movie)…I am only part of the way towards true fulfillment.

True fulfillment never seems to lie in the existence of these things and my appreciation of them. Rather, true fulfillment is reached by discussing these amazing things with other likeminded individuals.

That zingy spark of passion; that happy 'heebie-jeebie' that happens when you come across a thing you love can be prolonged and intensified, exponentially, when externalized in conversation with others.

YES! Who doesn’t love to feel good and possess an honest love of the pure genius of humanity?
I do. I do! It helps me in infinite ways. Particularly, the memories of these positive interactions aid me when I am mired in and bogged down; when I am trying desperately not to be rendered hopeless and pessimistic by the omnipresent ignorance, complacency, and short-sightedness that is every day life in the 21st century.

I must not, MUST NOT forget the power of people.

Friday, August 10, 2007

The Power of Expression

I have been thinking long and hard lately about what makes people love one another. I've talked to some random people about this topic, and people are saying the same thing over and over:

TELL THEM THAT YOU LOVE THEM.

Women differ from men in that above all, they appreciate the "grand gesture." What that means is not that the man has to leap tall buildings in a single bound or give expensive jewelry or cook dinner for them every night or do all those other things that seem so scary and demanding. Rather, the grandest gestures of all are accomplished by just TALKING to women.

One of the keys to true intimacy is to take a personal risk by baring numerous doubts, inconsistencies and vulnerable feelings…yes, even (and especially) those which have to do with the person you are trying to relate to. Women do it with one another every single day.

Most sensitive women find a man who does that irresistible, romantic, lovable, and sensitive. When that woman comes along who makes a man want to say those things, then they are both are learning the real truths of life and love. Of course, like for all of us, it doesn't always work out...but it MUST be attempted time and time again. It's the only way to love. Be foolish.

Women want words. Even if they tell you they "don't want to talk about it." Women who are mentally healthy yet who pretend they don't want intimate words are usually just waiting for the other person to instigate the talking. We get really freakin' tired of being the ones to always swallow our own pride and make intimacy happen. Even in platonic friendships, this is paramount.

I have known many men in my life, and I've noticed that the happiest ones are the ones who have learned the smallest trick of interpersonal relationships: not only observing, but also TELLING those women closest to them several special things. Whether it's a mother, a sister, a best friend, a lover, or a wife, the following are always welcomed.


1) "You look/smell/feel, (etc)… nice/beautiful/sweet/good, etc..."

2)"I was thinking today about why I care about you, and this is why: ___"

3) "You're so good at _____."

4) "I admire you because _____."


And so on. Mix, match, invent...go crazy.

There is not a person alive (at least who isn't pretty screwed up, self esteem-wise ) who could find kind words anything but bolstering. We all need it, too. Men get very used to having it from women, that's for sure. And my closest girlfriends are those who say that stuff to me, and I am all too ready to say it to them as well.

VERY IMPORTANT: People who feel they "don't have to say it" because we "should just know it" are, frankly, dead wrong. They DO have to say it. And they have to say it A LOT. No matter how long you know each other.

Women very naturally make a habit of nurturing and complimenting, whereas for men it's a bit harder. The ones I know that do this are loved in spades because they have learned these small tricks. And the funny thing is, every time I see one of them start the habit, it becomes tangibly visible when they find out how good compliments make both persons feel, and as it becomes second nature, and that's when true happiness sets in for everyone involved. It makes my heart sing to see that happen for other people.

Even the best men with the best hearts in the world aren't going to get the love they deserve if they never take a chance, swallow that stupid feeling, and just say what they feel to the people they love.

Wednesday, August 8, 2007

I'm doing much better now that I've got my own space. No stress, only relaxation and enjoyment, even when cleaning the toilet.

Still, despite this general contentedness, I find myself unprepared for a continuing and deepening feeling of emptiness. I feel disillusioned. Have I mentioned how much I try to combat that particular emotion because I hate it so? Oh...and I also feel disspirited, not to mention a bit bitter; both emotions which are rare in me and have never been very becoming.

Tuesday, August 7, 2007

Grrrrr

This is so frustrating. I really, REALLY want to force things to work out. Life would be so sweet, so much better, if they would be the way I want them to.

I hate this; I hate it, hate it, hate it. Eventually I'll have to just accept and say goodbye. There's really not another way because everything's always so blasted complicated.


Grrrr.

Monday, August 6, 2007

I'd say it right to them if it weren't so mean....

I'll say it again: hipster boys who insist on talking without knowing, drinking heavily, late-night phone calling, and spelling "a lot" as one word just ain't my bag, baby. Even a genuinely good-hearted specimen of this type doesn't mean that he's a romantic option for me. The worst thing is, they honestly don't recognize this.

Many of these fellows assume that they're 'my kind' because I make the town and play music and wear vintage or otherwise far-out clothing. And while they treat me with some modicum of respect, they do not really have an idea of what true respect is. They don't understand why I'm not going out of my mind with girlish eagerness when the phone rings at 2:23a.m.. They can't figure out why I'm not compelled to invite them over for a "nightcap" when they do call. Heck, it's worked for them with most other girls with a Bettie Page haircut, so why not me?

These fellows share my musical tastes and some of my knowledge. And I agree...we'd look quite impressive walking side by side, both dressed to the nines. But I'm not twenty-two anymore, and neither are they. Appearing in the door of a nightclub dressed to impress is a fun moment, I will admit...but it doesn't really "make my night."

Sigh...yes honey, I play the guitar. And you're right, I do tour in Europe. Sure, my records and books may rival or surpass yours...or not. And you're not mistaken; you can occasionally catch me at certain spots around town doing fun and exciting things. Because sometimes, yes...I "make the scene."

People of true substance and goodness are rare indeed, and although I feel as if I'm being a little bit mean, it's an absolute verity that I need those rare people in the central roles of my life.

I know that I am being condescending; the "holier than thou" intellectual snob. But although they cannot necessarily be blamed for a lack of finesse, education or perception, they should still educate themselves enough to not be completely flummoxed when I use the term "hair shirt" in casual conversation.

Thursday, August 2, 2007

Cry, baby...cry!

Oh, jeez--I look at that last blog and think to myself, "Whine, whine, whine!" Ugh. How pathetic-sounding.

I need to give myself a freaking break already. I'll take the rest of the week and the weekend to get settled in and unpacked. I have groceries in my fridge--not a lot, but it's all delicious and good for me. I have Netflix to watch (if only I could find the three-part cord that goes with the DVD player!), and books to read, and naps to take.

Last night I set up my living room, with the exception of hanging all my stuff on the wall. The kitchen needs a little more work, but is functioning now, as I've cooked two meals in there and done the dishes (a dish drainer is a small thing I can get sometime in the near future). My little bathroom is delightful--the bathtub is very pleasant to lounge in. And well, the bedroom is admittedly a mess, but will be fine very soon. Last night I took a hot bath by candlelight after all my furniture re-arranging was done, and this morning I put on NPR and did stretches. I'm starting to feel human again. The cats are once again lying lazily under my clock table and my turquoise chair, which spiffed up beautifully with a few squirts of lemon oil.

Town Lake beckons...relaxation beckons. Next week I'll be humming away, a busy little birdie indeed. No more whining! Things are good.

Wednesday, August 1, 2007

Everything feels strange.

I can't wait to feel more settled, more comfortable in my skin. Seems that pet-sitting for two different people and trying to move and trying to work and trying to finish a record and trying to have "me" time and trying not to spend two dollars on groceries while spending everything I have on bills is hard or something? But...how can that possibly be? Hah.

I was thinking today that maybe I should go have coffee with Justin like he wants to. There's really no harm in that, and I think I could use his gestalt right now. I'll have to warn him that I'm fat and feel horrible about myself and that he shouldn't make me feel bad under any circumstances, but the thing about Justin is that despite being 'baby daddy' several times over, he still always made me feel desirable and never really bad, even when the worst was happening. Sometimes a smooth operator is just what the doctor ordered.

That doesn't mean I want him back, because the last nail in that coffin was hammered a long time ago. However, I could use some compliments and lightheartedness and a sense of feeling attractive right now. I wish I did feel that way without needing others, but I'm not likely to for quite some time to come. Sigh...it's kind of like I'm in high school again, senior year; with that "going out into the world" feeling looming...raw,vulnerable and uncomfortable, like a body without skin.

So, now I am in a quiet, strange, comforting new home. But when things calm after the day, I check my email on my phone almost obsessively, looking for something but I know not what...and half afraid of what I'll find. All I find is spam, which I detest with a surprising amoutn of relief. I don't understand it. But, one thing is certain: soon the worries and the fears and the doubts and the feeling strange will go away. I have faith.

Tuesday, July 31, 2007

Funny, I feel like Barbara Pittman.

Two songs of hers come to mind today. "Sentimental Fool" and "I'm Getting Better All the Time." Heehee.


When did I become such a scaredy-cat? The other night as I lay in my bed in my new apartment, I pulled the covers up to my chin and prayed that I could keep this up. I was rather surprised by the intensity of this fright, as I haven’t experienced quite that much fear of the world in nearly twenty years.

I guess, little by little, my happiness and self-confidence has been eroded over the past four years. I mean, don't get me wrong--I have learned a HECK of a lot and I have grown in leaps and bounds. Most of all, I’ve recently realized is that this seeming "downswing" is because I’m not truly doing well for myself unless I’m living alone. Even in Kansas City, when I was constantly struggling for stability even more than I am now, I was still going to school full time and working full time. But I lived alone at that time, and in retrospect, all these patterns make sense. I need to be my freaky little self where no one can see.

I feel like I need to submerge myself in “me-ness” for a month or two. Then maybe I can re-emerge at a point where I can look someone in the eye and smile confidently again…not forced, or self-consciously. Maybe if some fellow asks me on a date I can accept happily, knowing they are interested and knowing that maybe I don’t have to work that hard to make someone like me in "that way" after all. Hey, it happens! I've forgotten how to recognize it, though.

I just want to re-gain my confidence and 'find myself' again. I have found me before, and it was beautiful. I can hardly believe that I have gotten to this desperate point once again, but at least I am older, wiser and know how to fix it. And that's apparently what life is about.


But--I’m getting better already. This is why.

Last night I enjoyed myself and felt more relaxed than I have in months. Breanna came by at 7pm, crowed and cooed dutifully over my new place, and then we went to Marakesh for Mediterranean food. We split a bottle of great Spanish Cabernet, ate kebobs and talked non-stop about life goals, my living situation and her fabulous job in publishing and the oddities she runs across every day. She’s an amazing woman, and I don't see her nearly enough. After dinner we went over to a 2nd street gelateria, where I ordered a tiny cup of coconut and banana flambé –flavored gelato. We sat and ate our gelato and talked until 10:30pm, when she drove me home—to my own small but true HOME.

Amongst the boxes, topsy-turvy tables, misplaced chairs and face-to-the-wall paintings, I put on an Ink Spots record, fired up the tea kettle, and smiled to myself. I sat on the back porch in the summer humidity and watch the clear, nearly-full moon high above the live oaks.

I have learned that my apartment building is situated directly on the slave quarters of what used to be the Goodrich Plantation. There are graves from the church, yes…but older even than that are the small, nondescript markers of slaves. The church and the site have a longer history than I’d originally known. There are some grave markers even thirty feet away from my back door. It’s all historical land surrounding our yard and building.

I sat and looked at the moon high above the trees and realized just how old the trees are. I mean, 150 years ago, someone no doubt sat just where I was and contemplated the same moon above the same oak, perhaps a bit smaller then. Someone sat where I was and stared up and wondered "Why?" as they mourned for their child or sibling or parent. It brought a lump to my throat to think about it…the kind of lump I’d fully expected to experience in Spain, but did not.

And now I can get that sentimental lump in my throat any time I want to.

It sounds strange, but I find that a lovely thought. Melancholia has a distinct beauty, and I do not shy away from it.

Saturday, July 28, 2007

GARGANTUA!!!

That's what I have named the spider outside the window of my house. I was taking down the curtain to pack it away since I'm running behind on all my packing.

When I removed the curtain, about 1 foot in front of my face was a huge spider about a body about 1 1/2 inches lengthwise and 3/4 inch crosswise, and legs that were spiny and three inches long. What a big 'un!

It had built an orb-style web across the width of the entire top pane of the window. If the glass hadn't been there I probably would have had a little freakout, that's for sure! I took a picture because not only was she HUGE, but she had a two-inch egg sack up in the corner of the window and was also feeding on a moth as I watched. YUCK! But kinda cool too.

Because I am trying to educate myself about spiders so that they don't freak me out, I did a little bit of research. It's called an Argiope spider (or yellow garden spider). It's one of the biggest orb-weavers in Texas. Here's a site:

http://home.att.net/~larvalbugrex/argiope.html

And here's a picture that's much better than my cell phone picture:


BLEAGHHHH!!!!!

I wasn't excited to see the grey of THIS dawn, but....

I got a call at 9:20AM from Jennifer, the gal with the apartment. Things are all ready to go!

I went to pick up the keys from her and met her parents and also met the apartment manager who was just that warm, salt-of-the-earth South Austin type. When I went into the place, it was BETTER than I remembered. Hallelujah! I am starting with a full day of moving stuff (until it starts to rain again). Tomorrow the move with the big stuff will take like five minutes because I'm getting a bunch in there today.

Wahoo!

I don't need a dinette set after all since there's a built-in table. And I have a back patio! This is amazing. I am going to LOVE it. LOVE it love it love it.

Although, I *am* kind of bummed that Reid, a guy I know who lives upstairs in the apartment building, grabbed her full-length mirror out of the dumpster while I was busy talking with them. Good thing I know him already and can give him guff about it. Heehee.

Friday, July 27, 2007

I'm not happy to see the grey of dawn

One of the worst mornings I've had in recent memory, and it's only 7:15am. I awoke at 6, my digestive tract roiling with its usual way when I am stressed beyond capacity. My eyes are swollen from crying over a sad, difficult conversation I had last night; my head is pounding, and my heart is aching. As if that weren't enough, stupid money worries are gnawing away at the lining of my stomach and my brain is racing trying to solve the problems and not being able to because quite simply, I have nothing.

I know, I KNOW, things will be okay. Today I am decidedly not okay.


I do not like knowing that my phone will be disconnected because to pay it means I would owe more than my entire paycheck. My mom has sent me money but apparently, just my luck--the card is lost in the mail. Tom & Laura are giving me a little for taking care of their pets too, but I probably won't see that until they get back. My health has deteriorated a lot since this time last year, and to top it off, on Sunday I am having my 35th birthday. No one can tell me I am a young woman anymore. It's getting to me more than I thought it would. I feel stunted in personal growth, run-down and world-weary, and realizing that I may never find real, true, two-sided romantic love. At 35, I thought I would be firmly ensconced in who I want to be, and happy about it.

I am completely depressed today in all aspects.

Thursday, July 26, 2007

Nothing comes without its price

Real personal freedom and well-being sure is hard to hang on to. Is that supposed to make it more valuable to me or something? I don't agree with that. I've learned plenty of damned "life lessons", and don't feel like getting told that the ultimate life lesson is learning to accept that I will always be struggling for personal freedom and well-being. I can be the worst sort of fascist dictator when it comes to my inner voices.

I'm exhausted from tackling, finagling, manevering, and otherwise struggling to maintain the simplest but most important things in life....home, heart, and health.

It had better get easier really soon.

Tuesday, July 24, 2007

Friday, July 20, 2007

Norman M. on Norman K.


For years, I've had an under-nourished fascination with the man that is Norman Mailer. Most of my exposure to him has been through his books and not his movies, which by the sound of it bodes well, generating from me a somewhat more respectable view of him than his movies would probably have brought (although I'm easily entertained). That's actually it, though...I've simply enjoyed and been thoroughly entertained by much of what he has to say. In particular, his writings on Marilyn Monroe are adept and worthy of attention.


Anyway, I'm wishin' I could jet off to New York to see my brother and take him with me to this event.


From the New York Times:


************************************************

Norman Mailer, Unbound and on Film: Revisiting His Bigger-Than-Life Selves

By A. O. SCOTT
Published: July 20, 2007
NY Times

Who was Norman T. Kingsley? No
Wikipedia entry exists to provide a full biography, but in his day Kingsley — or N. T. K., as he was sometimes called — was a figure of considerable world historical significance. A filmmaker who invited comparison to Buñuel, Dreyer, Fellini and Antonioni, he was also a formidable potential candidate for president of the United States, an object of relentless media fascination and the target of far-reaching conspiracies of the rich and powerful. Backed up by an entourage of hoodlums and street fighters known as the Cash Box, he was, in equal parts, artist, outlaw, pornographer and saint.


Kingsley lived in perpetual danger of assassination. He reveled in the company of boxers and beautiful women and was said by some to have “a proclivity toward Greek love.” His background was somewhat mysterious — Russian, Irish and Welsh with rumors of Gypsy and what in those days was called Negro blood — and his accent seemed to travel, in the space of a single utterance, from Brooklyn to Harvard to Texas. If one man could be said to crystallize the violent contradictions of his time and place, surely it was Norman Kingsley.


Not that such a person ever really existed. But somebody — one person in particular — had to invent him. Norman Kingsley is the main character in a movie called “Maidstone,” and the alter ego, avatar and namesake of the film’s director, Norman Mailer (whose middle name, by the way, is Kingsley). “Maidstone,” shot in the Hamptons in the summer of 1968 and released in 1971, is the third of four feature-length films Mr. Mailer directed, following “Wild 90” (1967) and “Beyond the Law” (1968). The fourth, an adaptation of his 1984 novel “Tough Guys Don’t Dance,” is the only one in which Mr. Mailer does not appear and the only one that can be said to obey the conventions of commercial narrative cinema. It stars Ryan O’Neal as an ex-convict and aspiring writer mixed up in a series of murders in Provincetown, Mass.


All four of these will be shown as part of “The Mistress and the Muse: The Films of Norman Mailer,” a fascinating and wide-ranging retrospective taking place during the next two weeks at three Manhattan cultural institutions: the Film Society of Lincoln Center, the Paley Center for Media and Anthology Film Archives.


The cinematic oeuvre of Mr. Mailer, now 84, cannot quite stand by itself; the movies he directed run the gamut from curiosity to catastrophe. Happily, this retrospective turns out to include a lot more: adaptations from his books (notably the excellent mini-series made out of “The Executioner’s Song,” his nonfiction masterpiece); movies suggested by his life and personality (like Karel Reisz’s “Gambler,” written by Mr. Mailer’s disciple James Toback and starring James Caan as a singularly reckless literature professor); and a generous smattering of documentaries and television shows (from “Firing Line” to “Gilmore Girls”) in which he appears.


The objection can be made that all of this stuff is trivial and secondary, an amusing distraction from the substantial and vexing edifice of Mr. Mailer’s real work, which is his books. Many of them, it seems to me, are too infrequently and poorly read, and some of their boldest gambits and thorniest truths are overshadowed by their author’s reputation for excess on and off the page.


To see him as he was in his various nonliterary incarnations — as cinéaste and talk-show guest, as politician and polemicist — is to understand some of what he was up to in books like “Advertisements for Myself” (1959), “Armies of the Night” (1968), “Of a Fire on the Moon” (1970) and “The Prisoner of Sex” (1971). And Mr. Mailer’s first three films — “Maidstone” in particular — are worth seeing for the insight they provide into the ideas and ambitions that fueled Mr. Mailer’s writing in the 1960s and ’70s, the wildest, most productive and most contentious period in a career that has never been especially calm or easy to comprehend.


In those years Mr. Mailer’s extracurricular pursuits, including the forays into filmmaking, sometimes attracted more attention than his prose. He seemed perversely intent on transmuting his early fame, acquired with the commercial success of his first novel, “The Naked and the Dead” (1948), into cheap media celebrity or even tabloid notoriety. His ego seemed boundless, his appetite for the spotlight so ravenous that it could look like a hunger for public ridicule. In 1967 he treated antiwar protesters in Washington to a drunken, rambling, scatological impression of Lyndon B. Johnson; two years later he undertook a quixotic run for mayor of New York City on a platform of municipal secession; he spewed obscenities at Germaine Greer on the stage of Town Hall in Manhattan in 1971. That same year he exchanged insults with Gore Vidal on an especially memorable episode of “The Dick Cavett Show.”


All of these events and many more can be witnessed anew in “The Mistress and the Muse.” Their entertainment value — see Mailer the candidate pressing the flesh on the streets of Harlem and Queens! Watch as Mailer the male chauvinist pig does battle with the assembled Amazons of the women’s liberation movement! Thrill to Mailer the literary pugilist as he accuses Mr. Vidal of “intellectual pollution”! — is undeniable. And so is Mr. Mailer’s charisma, his remarkable ability to mix the roles of crusader and clown, prophet and fool, rabbi and ham.


Some of this magnetism derives from his sheer physical presence — the jug ears, the piercing blue eyes under the woolly, graying thatch of hair, the stubby frame capable of surprising turns of quickness and grace. And then there is the voice, the rapid, forceful stream of half-baked nostrums and brilliant aperçus delivered in that inimitable accent, an audible palimpsest of Mr. Mailer’s Brooklyn childhood, his Ivy League education and his World War II combat service in an Army unit composed mainly of Texans and Southerners. He flexes his upper lip like a boxer testing his mouthpiece, and his impressive eyebrows jump up in mirth or bear down with exaggerated menace.


In short Mr. Mailer is, as he might put it, no mean performer. He has appeared in a handful of movies by other directors, including Milos Forman’s “Ragtime” (1981) and Jean-Luc Godard’s “King Lear” (1987). And his improvisational gusto as an actor is the most striking aspect of “Wild 90” and “Beyond the Law.” In the first he plays a gangster of some kind, his voice, often unintelligible because of poor sound quality, taking on Irish, Italian and African-American inflections when he is not on his knees barking in the face of a perplexed German shepherd. In “Beyond the Law” he is a detective with the soul of a poet, whose blend of sensitivity and profane machismo seems to be both a knowing parody of Mr. Mailer’s self-image and its sincere apotheosis.


On screen, whether he is playing Norman Mailer or Norman Kingsley (or, much later, King Lear), Mr. Mailer is almost always testing a hypothesis that the most hyperbolic presentation of the self will also be the most authentic. Fame was not only his burden, but also his subject and his method. “I was a node in a new electronic landscape of celebrity, personality and status,” he wrote in “Advertisements for Myself,” looking back with some ambivalence at his transformation, at the age of 25, from college man and ex-G.I. to the most acclaimed writer of his generation. And that book chronicles, among other things, his awakening determination to figure out how to use this curious existential condition as the basis for his work.


While his films, with their long, ragged scenes of improvised dialogue, show a superficial affinity with Andy Warhol’s, Warhol and Mr. Mailer are, in the context of their times, antithetical figures. Warhol was primarily interested in the distancing, depersonalizing effects of celebrity, in the way that media reproduction could turn persons into ciphers, emptying them of affect and individuality. For Mr. Mailer, affect and individuality were everything, and his project was to conceive a personality large enough to withstand the shrinking, homogenizing, castrating forces of contemporary life.

It was a fundamentally romantic project, and it makes him a grandiose figure and a curiously vulnerable one. Introducing him on “Firing Line” in 1968,
William F. Buckley Jr. observed that Mr. Mailer’s “technique is one of unalloyed narcissism mitigated by a recognition of — not to say a devotion to — his shortcomings.” While this summation is unkind, it is not inaccurate, and it goes some way toward capturing what an exasperating, fascinating character Mr. Mailer had become.


I use the word character advisedly. By the later 1960s his major strategy, already evident in “Advertisements,” would be precisely to collapse the boundary between author and character, to make himself the explicit protagonist of his writing. The result was a series of remarkable literary hybrids that cast the template for what would later be called New Journalism. “Armies of the Night,” in which the third-person “Norman Mailer” participates in the anti-Vietnam march on the Pentagon in October 1967, is perhaps the most sustained and successful performance in this vein. And while its reportage is justly praised — there is no better snapshot from that era of the intelligentsia at war — the formal radicalism of that book is in many ways underestimated.


Because Mr. Mailer’s milieu was the popular media rather than the academy, and because he was, from the start, a best-selling novelist rather than a critical darling, he is not generally grouped with the experimental novelists of the period. But even though he was schooled on the broad-backed realism of Theodore Dreiser and James T. Farrell, and even though the literary deity of his young manhood was Ernest Hemingway, he nonetheless undertook as thorough and audacious a re-imagining of the aesthetic parameters of the novel as did Thomas Pynchon, John Barth or William S. Burroughs.


That same experimental impulse — the drive to push at the frontiers of convention, to blast settled patterns of expression with the shock wave of his personality — drives his other activities, from filmmaking to politicking. Mr. Mailer’s acquaintance with the avant-garde theater and experimental film that flourished in New York in the 1950s and ’60s is evident in his films, which are always less concerned with polish or coherence than with plumbing the mysteries and serendipities of process. He does not want to represent an experience, but rather to induce one, to precipitate chaos in the hopes of glimpsing some new inkling of order.


His camera operators included D. A. Pennebaker and Richard Leacock, mainstays of the cinéma vérité movement. Mr. Pennebaker was on hand to capture the skirmish with the feminists at Town Hall and turn it into “Town Bloody Hall,” and he also filmed an infamous scene at the end of “Maidstone.” In that film Mr. Mailer describes what he is doing — whether he’s speaking as himself or as Kingsley is not clear, and perhaps moot — as pursuing “an attack on the nature of reality,” a slogan that could fit much of the art of the time.


In any case, reality took its revenge, or called Mr. Mailer’s bluff, in the person of Rip Torn, an actor in the film who assaulted Mr. Mailer with a hammer as Mr. Pennebaker’s camera rolled and the novelist’s children screamed in terror. Real blood was shed — Mr. Mailer nearly bit off his assailant’s ear — and schoolyard obscenities were exchanged as if they were ontological brickbats.


This scene, I admit, has a lurid fascination. But it also captures something essential in Mr. Mailer — his reckless bravado, his willingness to court ridiculousness and the loss of control. Very few artists today, in any medium, exhibit this kind of crazy passion, and that’s too bad. At the beginning of “Advertisements for Myself,” Mailer admits that “like many another vain, empty and bullying body of our time, I have been running for President these last 10 years in the privacy of my mind.” Near the end of “Maidstone” he notes that “in reality, someone like Kingsley could never run for president. But in fantasy — in fantasy — he could.”


True enough. And while some people seem to be fantasizing that the current mayor of New York, by virtue of his level-headedness and managerial competence, might make a good candidate, my own imagination runs toward the man who placed fourth in a field of five Democrats in the 1969 mayoral primary. And if Norman Mailer won’t run, maybe Norman Kingsley will.



Monday, July 16, 2007

Times, they aren't a-changing




Anyway, if either NY Times or LA Times ever wanted to hire me to write for them I'd be SO there, even with my contempt for the LA Times. That might just be because it's LA.

NY TIMES ARTICLE
In Archimedes' Puzzle, a New Eureka Moment

By GINA KOLATA
Published: December 14, 2003

Twenty-two hundred years ago, the great Greek mathematician Archimedes wrote a treatise called the Stomachion. Unlike his other writings, it soon fell into obscurity. Little of it survived, and no one knew what to make of it.

But now a historian of mathematics at Stanford, sifting through ancient parchment overwritten by monks and nearly ruined by mold, appears to have solved the mystery of what the treatise was about. In the process, he has opened a surprising new window on the work of the genius best remembered (perhaps apocryphally) for his cry of "Eureka!" when he discovered a clever way to determine whether a king's crown was pure gold.

The Stomachion, concludes the historian, Dr. Reviel Netz, was far ahead of its time: a treatise on combinatorics, a field that did not come into its own until the rise of computer science.

The goal of combinatorics is to determine how many ways a given problem can be solved. And finding the number of ways that the problem posed in the Stomachion (pronounced sto-MOCK-yon) can be solved is so difficult that when Dr. Netz asked a team of four combinatorics experts to do it, it took them six weeks.

While Dr. Netz acknowledges that his findings cannot be proved with absolute certainty, he has presented the work to other scholars, and they say they agree with his interpretation.

On a recent snowy Sunday morning at Princeton University, three dozen academics gathered to hear Dr. Netz speak, and then congratulated him, saying his arguments made sense. "I'm convinced," said Dr. Stephen Menn, a McGill University historian of ancient mathematics, in an interview at the end of the two-hour session.

Among all of Archimedes' works, the Stomachion has attracted the least attention, ignored or dismissed as unimportant or unintelligible. Only a tiny fragment of the introduction survived, and as far as anyone could tell, it seemed to be about an ancient children's puzzle — also known as the Stomachion — that involved putting strips of paper together in different ways to make different shapes. It made no sense for a man of Archimedes' stature to care about such a game.
As a result, Dr. Netz said, "people said, `We don't know what it is about.' "

In fact, he has concluded, the prevailing wisdom was based on a misinterpretation. Archimedes was not trying to piece together strips of paper into different shapes; he was trying to see how many ways the 14 irregular strips could be put together to make a square.

The answer — 17,152 — required a careful and systematic counting of all possibilities. "It was hard," said Dr. Persi Diaconis, a Stanford statistician who worked on it along with a colleague, Dr. Susan Holmes, who is also his wife, and a second husband-and-wife team of combinatorial mathematicians, Dr. Ronald Graham and Dr. Fan Chung from the University of California, San Diego.

Independently, a computer scientist, Dr. William H. Cutler at Chicago Rawhide, a manufacturer of oil seals in Elgin, Ill., wrote a program that confirmed that the mathematicians' answer was correct.

Perhaps as remarkable as the discovery that Archimedes knew combinatorics is the story of a manuscript that dates to 975, written in Greek on parchment. It is one of three sets of copies of Archimedes' works that were available in the Middle Ages. (The others are lost, and neither contained the Stomachion.)

"For Archimedes, as for all others from antiquity, we don't have the original works," Dr. Netz said. "What we have are copies of copies of copies."

Investigators evaluate copies by asking whether they agree on the text they have in common, and by looking for unique passages, which lend them particular interest. By those measures, the manuscript was invaluable. But it was nearly lost.

In the 13th century, Dr. Netz explained, Christian monks, needing vellum for a prayer book, ripped the manuscript apart, washed it, folded its pages in half and covered it with religious text. After centuries of use, the prayer book — known as a palimpsest, because it contains text that is written over — ended up in a monastery in Constantinople.

Johan Ludvig Heiberg, a Danish scholar, found it in 1906, in the library of the Church of the Holy Sepulcher in Istanbul. He noticed faint tracings of mathematics under the prayers. Using a magnifying glass, he transcribed what he could and photographed about two-thirds of the pages. Then the document disappeared, lost along with other precious manuscripts in the strife between the Greeks and the Turks.

It reappeared in the 1970's, in the hands of a French family that had bought it in Istanbul in the early 20's and held it for five decades before trying to sell it. They had trouble finding a buyer, however, in part because there was some question of whether they legally owned it. But also, the manuscript looked terrible. It had been ravaged by mold in the years the family kept it, and it was ragged and ugly.

In 1998, an anonymous billionaire bought it for $2 million and lent it to the Walters Art Museum in Baltimore, where it still resides.

"I should emphasize how incredibly uncommon the situation is," Dr. Netz said.
With the manuscript in hand, a small group of scholars set out to reconstruct the original Greek text. It was not easy. "You look with the naked eye and you see nothing, absolutely nothing," Dr. Netz said.

Ultraviolet light revealed faint traces of writing, but it included both the prayers and the mathematics. "The major problem is the combination of the fact that many characters are hidden with the fact that many are so faint that they are invisible," Dr. Netz said. Then there are the gaps where the pages were ripped or eaten away by mold.

Computer imaging helped. Dr. Roger Easton of the Rochester Institute of Technology, Dr. Keith Knox of the Boeing Corporation and Dr. William Christens-Barry of Johns Hopkins University managed to write programs to pick out writing from the "noise" around it, and in many places the Greek letters fairly pop off the computer screen.

"The product of the software is incredible," Dr. Netz said. But it too has limitations, especially near the tattered edges of the pages. To reconstruct the writings, Dr. Netz and Dr. Nigel Wilson, a classics professor at Oxford University, are using every tool available: ultraviolet light, the computer images, Mr. Heiberg's photographs and their own intimate knowledge of ancient Greek texts. Still, in some areas, "the text is likely to remain a conjecture," Dr. Netz said.

It was chance that led Dr. Netz to his first insight into the nature of the Stomachion. Last August, he says, just as he was about to start transcribing one of the manuscript pages, he got a gift in the mail, a blue cut-glass model of a Stomachion puzzle. It was made by a retired businessman from California who found Dr. Netz on the Internet as a renowned Archimedes scholar.
Looking at the model, Dr. Netz realized that a diagram on the page he was transcribing was actually a rearrangement of the pieces of the Stomachion puzzle. Suddenly, he understood what Archimedes was getting at.

The diagram involved 14 pieces, and the word "multitude" seemed to be associated with it. Mr. Heiberg and those who followed him thought this meant that you could get many figures by rearranging the pieces.

"This is part of the reason people didn't see what it was about," Dr. Netz said. But the old interpretation seemed trivial, hardly worth Archimedes' time.

As he examined the manuscript pages, piecing together their text, he realized that what Archimedes was really asking seemed to be, "How many ways can you put the pieces together to make a square?" That question, Dr. Netz said, "has mathematical meaning."

"People assumed there wasn't any combinatorics in antiquity," he went on. "So it didn't trigger the observation when Archimedes says there are many arrangements and he will calculate them. But that's what Archimedes did; his introductions are always to the point."

But did Archimedes solve the problem? "I am sure he solved it or he would not have stated it," Dr. Netz said. "I do not know if he solved it correctly."

As for the name, derived from the Greek word for stomach, mathematicians are uncertain. But Dr. Diaconis has a hunch.

"It comes from `stomach turner,' " he said. "If you get involved with it, that's what happens."

LA TIMES ARTICLE

13th-Century Text Hides Words of Archimedes

By Jia-Rui Chong, Times Staff Writer
December 26, 2006

The book cost $2 million at auction, but large sections are unreadable.Some of its 348 pages are torn or missing and others are covered with sprawling purple patches of mildew. Sooty edges and water stains indicate a close escape from a fire.

"This manuscript is, by far, the worst of any manuscript I've ever seen," said William Noel, curator of manuscripts for the Walters Art Museum in Baltimore, where it now resides. "It's a book that is on its last legs.

"The sheepskin parchment originally contained a 10th century Greek text, which was erased by a 13th century scribe who replaced it with prayers. Seven hundred years later, a forger painted gilded pictures of the Evangelists on top of the faded words. Underneath it all, however, is an exceptional treasure — the oldest surviving copy of works by the ancient Greek mathematician and engineer Archimedes of Syracuse, who lived in the 3rd century BC.

About 80% of the text had been transcribed and translated in the 1910s after it was rediscovered in an Istanbul monastery, but since then much of it became unreadable again because of deterioration. Fully deciphering its mysteries has had to wait for advanced technologies, some of which had never been applied to ancient manuscripts.

The unusual cast of detectives includes not only the imaging specialists who helped photograph the Dead Sea Scrolls, but also a Stanford University physicist who studies trace metals in spinach with a particle accelerator. Together, they have been carrying out one of the most remarkable "salvage jobs" in the history of codicology, the study of ancient manuscripts.
Archimedes, it turns out, is only one secret of the text.

Among the mathematicians of antiquity, Archimedes was one of the greatest and most cunning.He was one of the earliest to devise ways to calculate the area beneath curves and was the first to prove that a circle's circumference and diameter are related by the constant pi. He developed the Archimedes Screw to lift water and invented deadly devices, such as the Claw of Archimedes, which was designed to grapple enemy warships.

Archimedes died in 212 BC, when Syracuse was sacked by the Romans. Legend holds that he was drawing figures in the sand. "Don't disturb my circles," he supposedly told the soldier who killed him.

Knowledge of Archimedes' work is derived from three books.Codex A, transcribed around the 9th century, contained seven major treatises in Greek. Codex B, created around the same time, had at least one additional work by Archimedes and survived only in Latin translation. Codex C has been an enigma.

It was originally copied down in 10th century Constantinople, now known as Istanbul. Three centuries later, the manuscript was in Palestine. By then, it was no longer a precious vestige of ancient learning but an obscure text that could be put to better use as a prayer book. A scribe began by unbinding the pages. He washed them with citrus juice or milk and sanded them with a pumice stone. He cut the sheets in half, turned them 90 degrees and stitched the new book down the middle.The scribe wrote prayers over the blank pages. Codex C had become a "palimpsest" — a recycled book.

The book eventually was brought back to Constantinople, where it sat until the 1890s, when a Greek scholar wrote down a fragment of erased text that he was able to read. That fragment was brought to the attention of Danish philologist Johan Ludvig Heiberg in 1906, then the foremost authority on Archimedes.

Armed with a magnifying glass, he translated everything he could read, publishing his work in 1910. The palimpsest disappeared amid the chaos of World War I, only resurfacing in 1998, when a French family named Guersan offered it for auction at Christie's in New York.

An anonymous book collector paid $2 million and deposited it at the Walters Art Museum for conservation. Mold had attacked much of the manuscript, and four forged paintings of the Evangelists made in the 20th century covered some of its most important pages."That was our worst nightmare," said Abigail Quandt, senior conservator of rare books and manuscripts at the Walters Art Museum.

Roger L. Easton Jr., a 56-year-old imaging specialist at the Rochester Institute of Technology, had just come off his success revealing hidden text in the Dead Sea Scrolls. Christie's had commissioned him to make ultraviolet images of the palimpsest for the auction catalog, and now he offered his help to the museum.

Easton and his colleagues began their work in 2000. They tinkered with different methods for capturing the image with the ultraviolet light, which makes the parchment glow more whitish.They then merged those images with another set taken under a tungsten light, which enhanced the reddish hue of the Archimedes text.

The resulting "pseudocolor" image made it easier to distinguish the black prayer book writing from the burnt sienna words of Archimedes. Using this painstaking method, Easton and his team took two years to uncover another 15% of the text.They were stymied in penetrating the rest.

Two more years passed before Stanford physicist Uwe Bergmann, 43, read a magazine article about the Archimedes palimpsest that mentioned it had originally been written with iron gall ink.

One of Bergmann's projects at Stanford was investigating the process of photosynthesis in plants by using the synchrotron X-rays to image small clusters of manganese atoms in spinach. "Why not find traces of iron in an ancient book?" he asked.

Bergmann sent an e-mail to the Walters Art Museum, and the museum agreed to a test. Bergmann set up the palimpsest experiment at the Stanford Synchrotron Radiation Laboratory. Spread over an area the size of a football field, the synchrotron is part of the Stanford Linear Accelerator Center, a Department of Energy facility set in the foothills of Menlo Park.

The synchrotron hurls electrons at near light speed, forcing them to give off X-rays as they veer around bends. That X-ray beam is channeled away into the laboratories. Bergmann figured the powerful and precise beam could be used to make iron molecules fluoresce, thus allowing him with a sensitive-enough detector to pick up even the faintest traces of ink. Bergmann first had to determine the exposure time. Too much time and the powerful synchrotron X-ray could damage the parchment. Then, they adjusted the intensity of the beam, which could be so strong that it blinded the detectors that picked up the glow from the iron gall ink.

After two years of refining their technique, Bergmann and his colleagues began the laborious process of imaging the palimpsest this summer.Each side of a page, mounted in frame that moved in front of the beam, took 12 hours to record. The machines processed the pages continuously for two weeks.

Beneath a moldy, torn painting of St. John emerged two layers of writing.On the edge of the first page, they saw a signature dated April 14, 1229: "By the hand of presbyter Ioannes Myronas."It was the name of the priest who had erased Archimedes. In an office near Memorial Church at Stanford, Reviel Netz flicked off the lights. Netz, a slight 38-year-old with dark hair, leaned close to the screen of his laptop.

Bergmann's X-ray work had produced a black-and-white picture of a page from "The Method of Mechanical Theorems," a text found only in the palimpsest. One phrase — "let them be arranged so they balance on point theta" — had already been translated by Heiberg, although he had had to guess about the word "on," which was unreadable.

Netz, a professor of classics, looked at the X-ray image and nodded. He smiled.The actual word was "around.""That's not trivial," he said, explaining that the change altered the meaning of Archimedes' calculations involving an object's center of gravity.

The X-ray image also revealed a section of "The Method" that had been hidden from Heiberg in the fold between pages. It contained part of a discussion on how to calculate the area inside a parabola using a new way of thinking about infinity, Netz said. It appeared to be an early attempt at calculus — nearly 2,000 years before Isaac Newton and Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz invented the field.

The discoveries may seem small, but they are significant in the understanding of ancient mathematics, Netz said. One passage he studied several years ago involved the innumerable slices and lines that could be made from a triangular prism similar to a wedge of cheese. Netz said the passage, which was unreadable to Heiberg, showed that Archimedes was grappling with the concept of infinity long before other mathematicians.

For Netz, a specialist in ancient mathematics and cognitive history, the chance to decipher the palimpsest "is the fulfillment of an incredible dream," he said. One of his biggest breakthroughs involves a quirky part of the palimpsest called the "Stomachion," which literally means "Belly-Teaser.

"Stomachions were children's games in which 14 geometrical shapes were rearranged to create new shapes. Heiberg translated fragments of the manuscript but paid little attention to it, thinking it was just a game. Netz saw a deeper significance.

Archimedes asked a more restricted question in his "Stomachion": How many different ways could you combine the 14 triangles to make a square?

Netz believes the fragments address an area of mathematics known as combinatorics that scholars have only recently believed interested the Greeks. For all the high-tech efforts, there are still gaps remaining in the Archimedes text, perhaps 2%, Netz guessed. Among the jumbled fragments are clues that perhaps the deepest secrets are yet to be found.

A century ago, Heiberg copied down two lines that he couldn't identify. They began: "The youngest had been abroad for so long that the sisters wouldn't even know who was who."The passage was not Archimedes.

In 2002, scholars were able to cross-reference the quote. It came from "Against Timandros," written by a 4th century BC Athenian orator named Hyperides. Although Hyperides is little-known now, contemporaries frequently compared him to Demosthenes, an acknowledged master of oratory.

No complete versions exist of "Against Timandros," which Hyperides had written as part of a lawsuit over an inheritance, said Judson Herrman, a classicist at Allegheny College in Pennsylvania. Further study determined there were 20 pages of Hyperides in the palimpsest, including a previously unknown text called "Against Diondas."

The palimpsest, it turns out, took parchment from seven texts, including what are believed to be a commentary on Aristotle's "On the Soul" and a group of biographies of the saints, plus two still unidentified texts.The works are even more difficult to discern than the Archimedes because the ink is different and the pages more thoroughly scrubbed.

"I have been cursing all morning," Herrman said of his work on a few lines of Hyperides. The scientists aren't giving up. Easton's team recently began experimenting with precisely tuned light-emitting diodes, or LEDs, to illuminate the text.

The team also is using angled light to detect the outlines of letters etched in the parchment by the acid in the ink. The team made progress on a few pages, but it may take decades — or longer — before technologies are developed that can unveil all the texts."We'll probably leave something for future scientists to work on," Netz said.